Putting Out Candles
by Autumn Silhouette
Summary: Numair struggles with the immensity of his power, while an ethical pirate prepares for his final attack on Tortall...this is all pre-Daine.


Putting Out Candles

****

Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine, except the ones that are. Namely, everyone that isn't mentioning in Tammy's books is mine. The rest belong to the Great Goddess Tamora Pierce…*grins* So does the idea for this story. I got it from a line in Lady Knight. And since that book made me renew my love for Numair, I decided to write this…I have no idea how long it's going to be. *grins*It takes place before Numair meets Daine…when he's first settling into Court life in Corus.

Chapter 1 

Numair Salmalin sat in his study, his eyes scanning an ancient tome. A discarded scroll and quill lay beside him – his elbow knocked the feather to the floor as he turned a page. Bending to pick it up, he rubbed his eyes. It was too late to be searching for a spell with no practical uses, and he knew it. With a final scratch on the parchment, he shut the book, sending a cloud of dust into the air. Head in hand, he read over his scroll, checking his notes for errors. Satisfied that everything was where is should be, Numair placed the scroll on his desk, and stood up slowly – the weight of his fatigue fell upon him at once. Fuzzy rings appeared around the candles that lit the room. He rubbed his eyes to clear them, and raised his hand, palm up. Black fire pooled at his fingertips. With a final yawn, he turned his hand over, sending the fire to douse the light.

The candles exploded. Hot wax landed on everything in the room, including Numair's arms and face. Shaking himself awake, he ignored the burning pain that lanced through him wherever the wax stuck. He stumbled to his desk, picking up his night's work. Wax covered his hasty script, staining his notes with giant oil spots. The edges of the pages were burned, and scorch marks dotted the page where sparks had fallen. 

Numair fell into his chair, clasping the ruins of his study in a iron fingered hand. He stared at it, as though willing it to mend itself. When it didn't, he slumped over his desk, resting his head against the cool wood. His shoulders shook with dry sobs, and his work crumpled in his hands. As the first light of the dawn stained the horizon, his anguish resolved itself into a fitful sleep.

***

"Why can't I do it, Baird? What use is being a black robe mage if I can't even put out candles?"

Numair was laid out on a cot in the healer's room – Duke Baird stood with his back to him, examining something on his desk. With a cough that may have been a suppressed laugh, the Duke turned his attention back to his patient.

"Is that how this happened, then?"

Cool fingers touched Numair's arm – a tingling sensation flooded him as Duke Baird healed his burns. He sighed in a mixture of relief and exasperation – being healed wasn't his favourite pastime.

"I have to blow out candles. Physically - I have to blow them out. If I try to use my Gift, they explode." He gestured at his arms. "This is usually the result. I was tired. I – I wasn't thinking straight. I forgot -" He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at his own folly.

Duke Baird smiled gently. "We all have our faults. Yes -" he held up a hand to silence Numair's protests. "- even you, Master Salmalin, can't do everything."

Numair scowled. "I should be able to put out candles." He stood up, rubbing his arms to rid them of the tingling. "Look at you – you can heal nerves and ribs and blood vessels. I couldn't even _attempt_ something that delicate."

"But I can't turn people into trees." The Duke grinned.

Numair's scowl deepened. "And when have I ever had to do that before?"

The Duke shrugged, his green eyes kind. "Still, you have the power if it's needed. Not many people could say that."

"I'd rather be able to put out candles." Numair crossed his arms.

A sigh escaped the Duke's lips. "Well, if you're going to be grouchy, you can do it somewhere else. I suggest the library – you may find some arcane piece of literature to distract you from you shortcomings."

Numair gave Duke Baird a look, muttered a "thank you" and stalked out of the room.  

***

Caleb Demothi stalked back and forth across the deck of his ship. The sea wind ripped his red hair out of its horsetail and set it lashing against his face. He turned so that the wind pulled his hair from his eyes, re-wrapping it into some semblance of order, gripping the ship's rail when he finished. Where did such a strong wind come from on such a magnificently clear day? Not a single cloud touched the sky – it hadn't rained in months. 

A cough behind him got his attention. He dragged his eyes away from the sea, and turned to look at the intruder. A messenger, wearing the livery of the Emporer, stood directly behind him, hands clasped behind his back.

Caleb made a sorry attempt to look interested in what the boy had to say. It was probably just another last minute check that the plan was well in hand. He cocked an eyebrow at the boy, waiting for him to speak.

"Message for you, sir."

Caleb sighed. Protocol demanded that the boy say those exact words, even though he was well aware that Caleb knew why he was there. Caleb hated protocol. That was why he was a ship's captain – there weren't any rules at sea. At least – there weren't any for him. 

Caleb crossed his arms across his broad chest. "Yes?" He did his best not to sound exasperated. 

"His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Ozorne, would like to wish you good luck sir. He would also like you to be aware, sir, that, should you succeed in completing this mission, the reward will be considerable."

Caleb gave the boy a wry grin. _If_ he succeeded. There was no need for anyone to explain what would happen if he failed. His head would be on a pole at the top of the main gate that led into Carthak. He wasn't sure where the pieces of his body would end up – they might make it as far as Siraj, if he was lucky.

"His majesty would also like to remind you of the fact that, should you be found out or captured, he does not endorse your illegal activities in Tortall. Carthak has no place for pirates."

_Typical_, thought Caleb. _The Emperor of all Carthak hires me, the Vailea and her full crew to complete a strike – possibly suicidal  – against Tortall, and yet still feels the need to deny any responsibility._  Caleb had no respect for the man – a real leader would declare out and out war, instead of fighting with men hired by the offer of royal pardons.

He clenched his fists behind his back. There was no use taking his resentment out on the messenger – he was just a boy. Instead he looked up at the sky and counted to ten. When he looked back down, the boy was still there. An odd look crossed his features.

"Nice weather we're having, aye?" Caleb's voice was strained.

The boy grinned, and relaxed, his speech falling back into the patterns of a commoner. "Aye…though things are burning up real quick, what with the dryness. They say the fires are getting closer to the City."

A thoughtful look passed through Caleb's grey eyes. "How're they starting? There's been no lighting, and surely people aren't daft enough to leave fires untended."

The boy shrugged. "Some probably are. A few may be arson...that may be why they're so near the City all of a sudden." The boy bit his lip. "I shouldna have said that."

Caleb grinned. _So not everyone loves the Emperor, as much as his Royal Highness would like to think. Still…the boy could be a spy. _ He rummaged through his breeches pockets, looking for spare change.

"I hear it's as bad up north – the Tortallans must be having a time of it. They've got more that'll burn up there."

Caleb grinned, pulling a copper noble out of his pocket. "It'll make my job all the more simple." He flipped the boy the coin – it should ensure his silence. The messenger smiled up at him, and tugged at the brim of his hat. "My thanks for your generosity, sir." With a quick bow, he turned smartly, and made his way back towards the center of the City.

Caleb shoved his hands into his pockets. This last sabotage mission was the end for him. After he was finished, he'd take his reward and leave – travel to Siraj or some such. Killing people, be it for money, power, or 'the good of the empire', always left a bad taste in his mouth, and a wrenching feeling in his stomach.

Turning back to the sea, he let the wind wash over him – beneath the scent of salt water and fish, he detected a hint of smoke. Tortall was burning, and he was about to light one last fire.


End file.
